


Cronus: Be the Good Samaritan

by temporalDecay



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Codtier Cronus, Creepy Internal Monologue, Dubious Consent, Frottage, M/M, March Eridan, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:25:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like you're into all the freaky shit he makes you do to him, really.</p><p>You just like that he never says no.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cronus: Be the Good Samaritan

**Author's Note:**

> Non-con warning for unreliable Cronus POV and dubious as all fuck consent.
> 
> Written because a. I'd never written Cronus before, and b. the fact there was no codtier!Cronus/march!Eridan porn was almost like a personal offense. So I took it like a challenge, yay!

You like that he doesn’t say no. 

You don’t really have to ask, and why would you? Everyone’s always pretty quick to say no if they really mean it. Why would he be the exception? If he didn’t want this, he wouldn’t be here, that’s all. But he does as you say, instead, all the grumbling and whining just for show, you’re sure, because otherwise why would he spread his legs for you? Why would he hitch up that pretty skirt and let you see the slick wetness dripping through his underwear and down his thighs? 

You like that he doesn’t say no, that he claws at the wall and shoves his ass back against your hips while you grind the codpiece right between his thighs. You like that he moans and whimpers as you roll your hips back and forth, riding the stiff yellow fabric while he sobs for your bulge. It’s such a sweet, sweet feeling, having this little piece of perfect at your beck and call. You don’t care if it’s the height of vanity to fuck your dancestor like this, if he didn’t like it he’d say no. But instead he prances around you in that skirt that barely covers his ass, talking his pretty mouth off at you and then squeaking when you shove him on a wall or a couch or the floor. He’s moaning so nicely right now, arching his back and trying to squirm in your hold, as you keep his hips as still as possible and force the codpiece between his closed legs. It’s not enough for him, of course it’s not. How could it be, after he’s had your bulge so far inside his nook he’s tasted it in the back of his throat? After you've filled him up with your slurry like a common pail and made him hold it in until he cried? The most poignant feature of your godtier sliding against his underwear isn’t enough, but you want to see if you can _make it_ be enough. If you can make him spill and gush a puddle down his legs and ruin his panties and his skirt, just from this. 

“Easy there, chief,” you tease, way more in control because even if he’s a hot piece of ass writhing all over you, the codpiece itself doesn’t really _do_ anything for you. “You’re gonna make a mess.” 

“Fuck you,” he croaks, breathless and shivery, squirming harder and still not hard enough to get out of the hold. He’s stronger than that, you’re sure. If he weren’t loving every second of this, he’d be free already. “Cronus!” 

“You’re getting my clothes all dirty, babe,” you laugh, nuzzling the side of his neck because you know any touch to those gills makes him choke on air and stop talking all together. “Maybe you ought to lick it clean afterwards,” you say, sliding a hand down his front to grab a handful of his crotch, skirt and all. “Ask me nicely to fuck that sloppy hole.” 

He goes limp against the wall, chirring helplessly as his legs tremble and the sound of genetic material splattering all over the floor echoes in this tiny corner of dreambubble heaven you’ve made for yourself. He’s panting loudly, slumped forward and held upright only by your hands and the codpiece, now thoroughly soaked in his juices. Beneath your clothes, you’re quite wet yourself, but nowhere near as desperately so as he is. You let go of him and he slides down the wall, boneless and pliable like a thing of beauty. Your poor, poor pitiful dancestor, so needy and eager to please, what he’d do without you to give him his due? You’re such a nice guy, taking on the burden of giving him what he wants, when no one else will. 

“Here,” you say, reaching a hand to tilt up his chin while the other shoves down your pants and the codpiece, freeing your bulge. “Open wide, darling.” 

And he does. He doesn’t say no. He just tilts his head back and spreads his lips, and then you shove your bulge all the way into his throat, because that’s what he likes. If he didn’t like it, he’d let you know. But he doesn’t, he doesn’t say no. He just sucks your bulge like he was made for it, and closes his eyes when you dig in your fingers into his hair. He likes that, you think, the way you ruin his little hairdo and save him the indignity of using his horns like handles. Though you just might, one day, just to see if he likes that too. 

You’re a flexible guy, willing to accommodate your partners. It’s not like you like half the shit you do with him, but he’s so needy and wanton, that you’d feel bad not giving him what he wants. You just want to be considerate. You roll your hips into his mouth, encouraging, when he reaches out to hold onto your hips. His mouth is wet and small and tight, and his throat feels like a never ending corridor into bliss. He’s so cute, like this, trying his best to show you his gratitude the only way he knows how. 

It's not like you're into all the freaky shit he makes you do to him, really, you remind yourself, even as you pump your genetic material down his throat and watch him hungrily as he struggles to swallow it all. 

You just like that he never says no. 


End file.
